


inside our hearts, the glorious cheer

by damnromulans (beastofaburden)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastofaburden/pseuds/damnromulans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Bones and Christmas. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	inside our hearts, the glorious cheer

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory Christmas fic! Happy holidays, y'all.

They told everyone they were headed to Iowa, that Winona had asked them to spend the day at the old farmhouse. If anyone knew it was a lie (and how could they not, Winona didn’t finish her tour for another two months) they didn’t say anything. On top of that, Jim was pretty sure Uhura was jamming his comm signal, and that the absence of Starfleet personnel breaking down his door was due to the intervention of a certain pretty-scary-when-he-wanted-to-be-Jim-would-fucking-know Vulcan commander. They were bored, essentially trapped, and blissfully fucking _alone_.

As it goes, one thing leads to another. But it’s not Christmas sex.

This is not even Christmas-adjacent sex. Jim’s had Christmas-themed sex where Santa hats were placed artfully over junk, candy canes were sucked salaciously, queries as to naughty lists were issued, yuck yuck yuck. Hell, he’s even had anti-Christmas sex locked in with Gaila; her, trying to escape a holiday she couldn’t understand; him, trying to ignore the eerie quiet of his half-empty dorm room. It’s safe to say that Jim knows, and has mostly enjoyed, a wide array of festive fucking. 

However, this? This is just _them_. This is just movement, and heat, and wanting, fuck, he wants Bones _so much_ and the feeling hits him harder every time, has done since that fucking shuttle in Iowa. He wants the beat of Bones’ racing heart and the catch of his voice with each lazy thrust. He wants the kiss-swollen lips, wants to lean down and taste them again, but can’t tear himself from the view of Bones splayed beneath him to do it. He wants it all – he wants this to be everything, even if only for the day. And it is. _He_ is, everything, everything that matters and is good and holding him to the face of the Earth, really. Bones is literally the reason he’s here – and even if he wasn’t, Jim’s pretty sure there’s no one else he’d want right here, like this.

Jim stops himself for a moment, pulls Bones’ hips in as tight as he can and holds himself deep, watches as Bones tries to steady his breathing, as his gaze flicks between where they’re joined and Jim’s hands and his face, asking “what?” without words. It’s only then that Jim takes Bones’ face in his hands, drops down to steal the kiss he’s been waiting for, one that steals every ounce of his attention and deposits it in the slick dip of tongues and light bites at a full bottom-lip. And, once Bones is absorbed in the kiss, once Jim’s pulled in by the shoulders and held tight, only then does he move again. He abandons the lazy and chases their satisfaction, now, reaches between them to pull at Bones’ heavy cock and swallows down the whine when he comes, writhing and bucking and never _once_ letting Jim go, not until he’s burying his face in Bones’ neck and sucking bruises through his own release.

When they finally muster the will to separate and clean up, Jim’s content to doze in the grey light of the window. He listens to the faint tap of rain and times it against the rise and fall of Bones’ chest. Usually, he thinks, he’d have been up straight away, cooking, watching a holo, filling time. Back in the Academy, Bones gave him no end of grief for this habit: in the tiny room there was no escaping the noise, and Bones would kick at the sheets, muttering about ‘hyperactive son of a bitches,’ tracking Jim’s movements with a glare all the while. 

It’s strange to think that all of that – that tiny room, their fumbling through the early days of _this_ , just being two more specks in a sea of red – was only four years ago. It feels like another life.

For him, it _was_ another life

As if he knows (and he might, Jim wouldn’t even be slightly surprised if Bones revealed some deep-seated telekinetic ability at this point) a hand seeks out Jim’s own, tucked beneath the blankets. Bones isn’t facing him, has always slept on his back, but Jim feels his low and steady tone as intimately as if it were a whisper in his ear.

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“And here we were, doing so well at ignoring all that bullshit,” Jim teases, but he squeezes lightly at Bones’ fingers as he says it, threads them through his own. “It’s fine, Bones. I didn’t get you anything either.”

Bones sighs, and Jim sees it more than he hears it, still watching his silhouette outlined by the window. “It’s been one hell of a year. And God knows I’m happy we’re not stuck at some party eating dry turkey. Still feel like… well. ‘Spose some habits are hard to shake.”

“You haven’t shaken me.”

Bones grunts doubtfully and Jim smiles into his pillow, but it doesn’t take much to decide that a shoulder would be the better headrest. Jim shuffles over and presses a brief kiss to the curve of his collarbone, sweeps a hand absently over his chest. 

“I suppose this is the part where I tell you I don’t need any presents because I have everything I want,” Jim murmurs. He means it – of course he does – but he’s all the more satisfied when Bones snorts in reply.

“And I suppose this is the part where I tell you you’re full of shit.” It’s nothing but fond, though, and coupled with a lingering kiss to the forehead. Jim accepts both gestures with equal gratitude. He knows they mean the same thing. 

It’s just another day, really, quiet and calm and still more than either of them could have ever asked for. And next year, out in the black, they’ll be ready for the replicated turkey and the spiked eggnog and a crowded mess hall. But for now, it’s not Christmas. Not for them.

It might still be the best one they’ll ever have.


End file.
